


Then Settle Like Dust

by coldcomfort



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, Harlequin, M/M, Mpreg, Out of Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldcomfort/pseuds/coldcomfort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning home from a year spent abroad Duke Hale is desperate to hold his beloved Stiles and their child in his arms after so long apart.</p>
<p>To his horror he arrives to find Stiles with child, the realisation sinking in that the rumors he'd heard of an affair with his uncle must be true. In fury at his loved one's betrayal he throws him out onto the streets.</p>
<p>However as time passes and his pain only grows Derek tries to search for answers. Will he find the truth in time to save Stiles and the baby from ruin....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a synopsis I read about a year ago on the back of some harlequin type book in a charity shop. I didn't read the actual book and can't even remember the name of it sadly but the kernel of an idea has been growing in my cluttered mind since then.
> 
> A couple of things to note; firstly that male carriers in this world are often referred to in the same way as females, eg..Stiles will be referred to as wife, bride, etc despite the fact that he is male.
> 
> Secondly, I want to impress that this is simply a trashy historical romance fic written for fun and many of the views and actions taken within do not square with my own, nor do I condone them. 
> 
> The entire story has all been drafted out and I hope to update at least weekly but hopefully more often than that.

_Stiles_  
  
  
The coach shuddered as it’s wheels sank into yet another pot hole on the rough, ill used road in rural Dorset. Stiles threw out his hand onto the velvet covered seat to steady himself, eyes flickering involuntarily to the man seated opposite him who gives him a tight smile in return. Stiles thinks it’s meant to comfort him but the disquiet he feels causes him to turn his eyes back to the countryside passing with a hurriedness which he knows borders on rudeness.  
  
‘Are you quite comfortable?’ The man’s voice forces Stiles’ attention back into the confines of the coach.  
  
 No not _man_ but _husband_ , he reminds himself, the very thought of that word sending a thrill through him, a thrill of fear and of something else….excitement, anticipation maybe? All he knows is it’s a feeling he does not recognise and that alone fuels his unease.  
  
Remembering himself and his manners he answers ‘I am quite well Your Grace, just unused to traveling is all. Do you know how much longer till we reach your estate?’  
  
His husband’s sharp eyes are fixed on him as he answers ‘I should think another two to three hours at least. The traveling has seemed harder as we have not broken the journey. I apologise for that but I wanted to reach Hale Court before dusk so you could see the estate properly.’  
  
Stiles feels a shy smile cross his face instinctively, a natural reaction to hearing his new husband talk so simply and openly of his care for his opinion. It’s foolish over such a quick, throwaway remark but it makes Stiles flush to think that his fate and well being are in the control of this man before him, practically a stranger but his husband by law and before God.  
  
It should terrify him but his feelings, whilst tinged with fear, are suddenly overtaken with a rush of hope so strong it leaves him slightly breathless. He takes a gulp of air into his lungs and breathes it out before somewhat calmly replying.  
  
‘Thank you Your Grace for your thoughtfulness, I am most eagerly looking forward to seeing your estate.’  
  
‘ _Our_ estate’ his husband corrects firmly but with a tiny smile that’s slightly less tight than his previous one. He smooths a hand distractedly down his embroidered coat and fixes his eyes to the tree line outside the window, effectively dismissing the conversation.  
  
Stiles turns back to his own window, relief at the end of the awkward exchange warring with the pleasure he’d felt upon his husband’s declaration that his home was now to be Stiles’ as well. Of course he’d known that technically he would be the new Duchess of Hale as his betrothed was the Duke, and that incorporated all estates, livestock and land within that noble’s grasp.  
  
However he also understood quite plainly that he was yet another possession within the Duke’s ownership, lumped in with the grand homes, priceless antiques and well bred horses.  
  
Duke Hale would be well within his rights to treat his new wife with the same attention and respect he gave to his favourite hunting dog and society would not blink an eye. Some would even respect him more for it undoubtedly.  
  
Fearful fantasies of being shut away in the darkness only to be bought out and paraded in front of the ton for his husband’s satisfaction have haunted him since he heard word of who he was to marry. Those two simple words feel like a balm, soothing his dread and fuelling his hope.  
  
But no! He pinches his thigh sharply, the pain slicing through his fanciful thoughts, bringing him firmly back to reality. He’s getting carried away. He knows nothing of the man sat opposite him, nothing of the future he’s to have with him, all is out of his hands, the truth to be unfurled before him as and when the Duke feels fit. He always was a romantic, his father used to tell him so fondly, head filled with thoughts of love and happy ever afters.  
  
That memory of his father, the soft look in his eyes as he teased him, his hand scuffing affectionately against his head, all so clear still. brings a tight, burning feeling to Stiles’ throat. He gazes out the window, unseeing, lost in the memories of the last few weeks.  
  
It was only a handful of days after his 17th birthday that he found his father unconscious in the garden. It was his mother’s favourite part of the garden, filled with wild flowers and far less formal than the rest. Stiles did not know if this held any meaning, whether there was some sign he was missing. There was a lot he didn’t understand in those terrifying hours and days.  
  
His father had passed away two days later, never regaining consciousness, in the same bed his wife had passed in several years before. Stiles had stood at the wake, frail and confused, accepting the murmured thoughts and prayers of the mourners, along with their pitying looks with little awareness and vague, politely ingrained responses.  
  
He’d sat in the summer parlour once they’d all dispersed and the sun was falling behind the trees, casting gloomy shadows across the room.  
  
The young curate of the parish had sat with him, his warm hands softly grasping one of his. Isaac was young, only a few years older than Stiles, and whilst they weren’t friends there had always been an easiness between them and Stiles had always stopped to chat to him gladly after church when by contrast he would run and hide from Reverend Harris.  
  
That ease and casual familiarity had left Isaac the unenviable task of explaining the bleakness of his situation to the young boy, and Stiles can still remember feeling pity for the man even through the fog of his own grief.  
  
‘Master Stiles, I know the last few days have been a terrible time for you and I sorely wish I could leave you to suffer through your grief but sadly I must speak to you of urgent matters that cannot wait.’  
  
Stiles nods slowly to indicate he understands and Isaac continues. ‘Whilst your father Squire Stilinkski was a respectable man, with some property and wealth to reflect this, sadly as a carrier I’m afraid you cannot inherit this even once you come of age.’  
  
Stiles stiffens slightly, this is not a total shock to him but he is wary of Isaac’s next words.  
  
‘Well, ermm…’ Isaac is stumbling, unsure how to proceed and this panics Stiles further. ‘Well’ he states again more firmly, as if to encourage himself. ‘There are a couple of options we, that is…I mean…I…have thought of.’  
  
Stiles looks down at his lap, as embarrassed as Isaac is at his slip up. The village society’s nosiness in his tragic affair is obvious but should remain unspoken for dignity’s sake.  
  
‘Well’ Isaac doggedly repeats, and Stiles dearly hopes it’s the last time he hears that blasted word. ‘As I said there are really two options for you at this point. You could become a ward of the church, your father’s property and wealth would be given over to the church and a nominated clergyman would be given responsibility for you and become your guardian. In this case it would most likely be Reverend Harris.’  
  
Stiles shudders and asks ‘What’s the other option?’  
  
‘The other option would be marriage’.  
  
Silence follows these words, the tick of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the faint bustle of the servants in the back rooms the only sounds.  
  
Stiles closes his eyes, unwilling to speak, the previous knowledge that these would likely be his only choices still not lessening the actual shock of hearing it out loud.  
  
The sound of his harsh new reality is laid out before him in the very same room he played in as a child, sat enjoying parlour games with his parents at Christmas and curled up reading with his father in those lonely evenings after his mother died.  
  
Realising Stiles has no intention of speaking Isaac continues…’As male carriers are rare and much sought after due to their considered status and …erm…fertility…well (there’s that blasted word again)….a good match would presumably be fairly easy to arrange. In fact Lady Stevens has already mentioned several noble gentlemen whom she feels would have an interest.’  
  
Isaac tails off, sensing Stiles’ distress and unsure whether to continue.  
  
Stiles feels like the world is shrinking rapidly around him, the walls are leaning in, darkness is creeping into the edges of his vision and he can barely catch his breath. ‘When do I have until to make my decision?’ he wheezes out, determined not to embarrass his father’s memory by collapsing on the rug like a helpless child.  
  
‘Well’ Isaac starts. Stiles pushes his hand off his, distain colouring his face, his shortened fuse suddenly lit by the curate’s hopeless fumbling and embarrassment.  
  
‘I know this is not what you want to hear but as a minor and a carrier I’m afraid…erm…well…the decision is not yours to make.’ Stiles finally brings his eyes to Isaac’s own steady gaze, kind, pitying and unbearable in the warm evening light.  
  
‘What on earth do you mean Isaac, my father always meant for me to choose my own match, you know that! You know he would never have forced me!’ His voice has grown loud and shrill in the quiet room and he’s half out of the chaise when Isaac leans over and presses him back down, hands firm on his forearms, face anxious and drawn.  
  
‘I know, I know, Master Stiles, but you must realise that everything’s changed now. I’m so sorry but you must come to terms with things, the sooner you can accept your fate then the easier things will be for you. I know Reverend Harris is not keen on the idea of being your guardian I’m afraid so marriage is the most likely option.’  
  
At Stiles’ faint noise of distress the curate continues earnestly. ‘No Stiles, please don’t be upset, you must see the benefits’ he urged. ‘You will take your father’s assets into the marriage as your dowry so you won’t have to give them up completely. And with the right husband a marriage can mean freedom, more than you would have living at the rectory under the Reverend. You would have your own household, servants and eventually children, please, please think of all you could gain rather than all you are losing. I know it’s hard…’  
  
At this Isaac tails off. Stiles’ set, pale face enough to convince him that no more should be said and done tonight. Stiles watched him take his leave quietly, accepting his hat from Molly the servant girl with a soft murmur of thanks and slipping silently from the house.  
  
Stiles sat in his parents’ parlour alone and forsaken, waiting for his fate to be decided.  
  
  
  
  
_Derek_

  
  
His young bride is lost in thought, gaze glassy and unseeing of the lush hills and dark woodland that make up the beautiful Dorset countryside that surrounds his estate. They will reach the edge of his land soon, though they are still nearly an hour from arrival, a testament to the vast grip the Hale dukedom has on this part of the country. Thousands of acres of land sweeping from high hills, down through pretty villages and valleys all the way to the lush coastline so many miles away.  
  
Add to this his estates in Suffolk and Scotland, the swathes of prime London real estate and his immense and lucrative tobacco plantation in North Carolina and you beheld a small kingdom over which the 9th Duke of Hale was able to reign dauntlessly and without the slightest challenge or dissent to mar his self-possession.  
  
The only shadow that had fallen across his sunlit world was the loss of his parents to scarlet fever when he was still a young buck in the King’s regiment. As an only child he’d been forced to give up his wild, frivolous life as an officer to return to his family’s primary estate.  
  
He’d dutifully swapped his bright reds for a black coat of mourning and his sword and musket for legal documents and ink stained fingers. The only immediate family he had left was his uncle Peter, an amusing degenerate who utterly refused to venture further out of London than Richmond Park and who wrote to Derek only when he required funds or protection from whomever’s husband he’d insulted that week.  
  
At thirty two years of age, Derek, 9th Duke of Hale and lord of all he surveys, had awoken one morning in his large, lonely mahogany bed and decided he was ready to take a wife.  
  
He wanted to fill those empty rooms of his ancestral home with the sound of children playing, to fill his bed with a beautiful young creature, someone he could hold down and take lustfully in the dark but who would smile sweetly and innocently at him over the breakfast table.  
  
Derek had no idea if that was how a marriage worked, he’d grown up with nannies, tutors, then a procession of boarding school, university and finally the army. He’d only seen his parent’s relationship from a great distance. Like watching a play in another language it had made little sense to him and he’d held only a vague interest in it.  
  
Regardless, he’d made it quietly known in society that he was on the lookout and sat back as the flood of offers deluged him. Effusive letters were sent from acquaintances detailing their children’s perfection for the role of the future duchess. Conversation at every soiree and concert Derek attended in town turned to the matter of marriage and who might be best suited within seconds. This became the Duke’s reality in those few weeks after his decision.  
  
Infuriatingly, despite the sheer volume of youth and beauty paraded before him during this time Derek felt not a single shred of interest for any of these shining examples of society’s glittering future.  
  
He wasn’t expecting love, some fairytale romance where he swept his new Duchess into his arms and waltzed into the sunset, however feelings of some kind were surely necessary when bonding yourself to another being for life?  
  
All he felt was bored. Occasionally warmed by a flash of a pretty ankle, a charming smile, a full cleavage, but even that interest faded as soon as they were gone from his sight.  
  
It was his old acquaintance Lady Stevens, at a dinner at Almack’s Assembly Rooms in London, who finally managed to knock a dent into his stubborn armour.  
  
The conversation started dispiritingly enough. ‘There’s a young boy that I know Your Grace, just of marrying age and a lovely disposition. A carrier too of course.’  
  
Derek was nodding politely and giving his full attention to the dessert when a miniature was thrust in front of his face. The portrait showed a youth with close cropped brown hair, pale skin scattered with beauty marks and huge beguiling eyes.  
  
A pretty face but nothing special in of itself, however there was something in the expression, some fleeting, palpable emotion the painter had caught that sent a thud through Derek’s chest and a quickening of breath to his lungs.  
  
He didn’t understand exactly what this sensation was but it felt strongly like…recognition? It was ridiculous of course, for all he knew the imprint of expression on the boy’s face was simply conveying whatever peculiar mood the portrait painter had been in that day and had nothing to do with the fine featured boy he’d been capturing in oils.  
  
Nevertheless Derek reached compulsively for the miniature at the same time as he heard himself speaking. ‘He has an exquisite face to be sure’.  
  
Lady Stevens murmured in agreement, almost holding her breath for Derek’s next words. To be the gifter of a new Duchess would be a prominent mark in her ledger, it could possibly propel her back to the glittering centre of the ton, a position she had once held but had to relinquish once her husband had been lost to war and she’d become simply another country widow.  
  
The Duke continued. ‘I have not seen him at court or at the Assembly Rooms before, is he not out yet?’  
  
Lady Stevens lent in conspiratorially ‘No Your Grace, he is not. He is the son of a Squire, an extremely respectable family but without the means for a presentation at court. His father, his only family, passed recently and a marriage is being sought for him. He is a sweet, kind boy, perfect manners and would be a lovely mother. The church wants to take him as a ward, they would receive the Squire’s property you see. But we feel that would be such a waste, such a young, beautiful soul shut away to rot in some dingy rectory. Do you not agree Your Grace?’  
  
Derek had looked at the portrait, those knowing eyes and slight upturn to the chin, thought of how absurd he was to be excited over a damn painting, of how the boy was most likely a conceited fool like all the rest and could scarcely believe it when he hears his mouth utter a determined ‘Yes’.  
  
A mere fortnight later had found him in Lady Steven’s morning room in Hertfordshire, sipping weak tea and losing a fairly one sided staring contest with Lucille, Lady Steven’s elderly pug.  
  
The door clicks open and the Lady of the house enters in a regal fashion towing a slight figure in her wake. Derek stands, ram rod straight and makes a low, formal bow.  
  
As he rises the boy makes a half curtsey, half bow as is expected of a male carrier. He is slight, his fragility enhanced by the grave black Eton suit he’s wearing. There are dark circles under his eyes and a downturn to his lips but his beauty is undeniable.  
  
They take their seats and sit in an awkward silence as Lady Stevens babbles on about the weather, last night’s soiree, the tea cakes and whatever other banalities she has stored in her conversational arsenal.  
  
The boy, Stiles he has learnt, has his hands shoved indelicately between his thighs, to stop them shaking perhaps Derek wonders. His eyes flicker up every few moments to unsubtly gaze at Derek’s person. Those bright eyes drifting over his form, absorbing every detail makes Derek feel heated, his neck cloth feels tight all of a sudden.  
  
Just as Lady Stevens launches into her oft heard story of the cows which chased her across a field this Easter past, Derek clears his throat and addresses the boy. ‘My apologies for your loss, I understand what an upheaval this must be for you. To not only lose your father but your home too, it seems a grave injustice.’  
  
At this, those large eyes widen even further and the boy’s brow wrinkles in confusion. ‘Thank you Your Grace. Your concern is most comforting. Though I do not think your view of injustice is one many people share.’  
  
He flicks his eyes back down to where his hands grip the fabric of his pants tightly and whispers ‘but I appreciate it sir.’  
  
A short but deafening silence follows interrupted only by Lady Stevens and her discourse on bees and their declining population, always popular with the blue stocking set but falling on deaf ears with her current audience.  
  
Derek pretends to listen for a few moments then rises and takes his leave of them both with all the starch dignity and weight his position affords him.  
  
Two days later Lady Stevens received the letter containing Duke Hale’s offer of marriage and further directions to be carried out for preparation of the bride.  
  
A muffled yelp drags Derek out of his musings. The carriage had fallen in yet another hole causing the entire vehicle to rock violently. His bride was gripping the edges of the seat, his knuckles white and his face tinged with grey.  
  
Luckily a quick glance out of the window assures Derek that they are only scant miles from home, his partner’s travel sickness will soon be at an end and his feet on solid ground.  
  
He felt guilt stir within him, an unsettling feeling mixed in with the natural relief and sense of contentment he always felt when he arrived back in his own lands. He knew his young bride had had little to no say in becoming the next Duchess of Hale and that there had surely been some reluctance and no doubt fear in his heart as they’d been joined as one at the altar only a handful of hours before.  
  
The wedding had been rushed, taking place only a few days after his floundering meeting with the boy. As a result things had not been as they should. In his desperation to be married, to have it done and embark on his new life, Derek had purchased a special licence and chosen to dispense with many of the formalities.  
  
There had been the bare minimum of witnesses at the church to ensure legality (his uncle Peter had been invited but was a much expected no show). He’d given his new bride no time to shop for a wedding trousseau and instead had sent instructions ahead to his housekeeper to organise any items Stiles may need to be ordered from the nearest town.  
  
Derek knew determinedly little about weddings but he did know the excitement of gathering the many fine and expensive items of clothing and accoutrement that a new bride would need was an important step, a signal that they had passed into adulthood and a new life. Their glittering array of new garments to be displayed through each new social gathering a proof of the status they’d gained and the innocence they had lost.  
  
This couldn’t be replaced by a dour, middle aged servant ordering a handful of new dress clothes from a dreary country tailor.  
  
On top of all this Derek had chosen to forgo the wedding breakfast, he hated small talk and society gossip at the best of times and when it stood between himself and the start of his new, much desired marital life then it was simply not to be borne.  
  
He looked his fill of his new Duchess, holding himself so stiffly, so tightly, a brave facade that reminded Derek of the young soldiers he’d seen on the brink of battle, standing firm and tall, knowing that to relax for a moment may let that barrage of overwhelming fear and anxiety break through and drown them completely.  
  
In that moment he resolves to try and do his best by his young wife, to give him a new home and family in which he can find comfort and peace…the same things Derek had been chasing after for so long.

  
  
_Stiles_

  
  
The coach is rattling it’s way up an absurdly long drive, through lines of elms, past monuments, lakes and acres of formal parkland until finally they round a cluster of great oaks and Hale Court comes imposingly into view.  
  
The sheer size of the building is enough to drop Stiles’ jaw in awe, however it’s the palpable atmosphere of ancient and elite history which seems to exude from each stone and lintel that has him shrinking back into his seat, clutching his traveling cloak a little tighter, feeling less like a Duchess and more like a foolish, lost child with every turn of the wheels that brings them closer to his new home.  
  
Just as his nerves and panic start to build, threatening to overwhelm him, he feels a warm hand grip his own and raises his eyes to capture the Duke’s own clear gaze.  
  
‘Do not be nervous, this is your new home. It will welcome you as surely as I have. You are to be mistress of the house and all within it.’ Derek creases his forehead in consternation. ‘I have no fear that this task will prove too much for you, I have chosen you and that in itself should ease your doubts.’  
  
He clears his throat, lifts his hand and turns his attention away again.  
  
If those stern words were intended to sooth his nerves, Stiles frets, then they could not have failed more miserably.  
  
He sighs and starts to smooth down and arrange his clothing, creased and dishevelled after the long journey, in preparation for his introduction to the household.  
  
The carriage creaks to a slow halt, a footman rushing to open the door. As the Duke rises to exit he turns as he’s about to step down, smiles slightly shyly at Stiles and softly says ‘I’ll be by your side the whole time.’ He turns and drops down onto the ground.  
  
Stiles rises, the words echoing in his head, imbuing him with a rush of warmth and sudden confidence as he lifts his head, squares his shoulders and takes his first step from the carriage as the Duchess of Hale.


	2. Chapter 2

_Stiles_  
  
  
Clutching his husband’s velvet clad arm too tightly he progresses slowly through the great hall. He leans into the firm, warm presence beside him, taking strength from the Duke’s confidence and fine bearing as they make their way regally down the line of starched, straight faced servants.  
  
Derek seems to know each one by name and murmurs faint greetings to them as they curtsy and bow and in every way show their deference to the Duke and his young bride.  
  
Some of the older servants flicker their eyes slowly across Stiles’ form in a manner which suggests his appearance in Hale Court is about as welcome as the mud trailed in on a workman’s boots.  
  
Many of the younger ones, the boot boys, parlour and kitchen maids are markedly more friendly. They smile openly and seem excited to meet him, a sight in many ways more discomforting to Stiles than the others’ cool dismissal.  
  
As they reach the end of the seemingly endless line of servants (he’s counted over twenty and these are just the indoor staff!) the Duke comes to a halt besides a well dressed, dark skinned man clutching wads of papers and looking serious.  
  
His husband rests his hand low on Stiles’ back as he introduces him to his steward and secretary Boyd.  
  
Stiles can hear the Duke singing his steward’s praises, effusing about his loyalty and efficiency and how he couldn't trust anyone else to help him run the estate but it all sounds as faint as an echo when his husband’s hand is pressed so low.  
  
His fingers are spread out and the tip of one is resting just at the top of his buttocks. It’s a remarkably innocent touch really, the sort any husband is safe to offer in public but there’s something so casually intimate within it that sends a shiver through him.  
  
It’s a possessive touch, a hand resting on it’s property and it carries with it the promise of so much more. In public small gentle fleeting touches are all a husband can give his wife but they’re shorthand for the deeper, greedy embraces that are exchanged behind closed doors.  
  
Finally, after exchanging a brief and awkward smile with Boyd, Stiles is steered away further into the gloom of the hall.  
  
‘I will give you the short tour tonight. I know you’re hungry and tired, I can show you around properly tomorrow.’  
  
The Duke’s hand slides round to grip the side of his waist, his arm heavy across his back, tucking Stiles in closer to his side.  
  
‘Thank you Your Grace, that’s most considerate. I’m looking forward to….. arghh!’  
  
Embarrassingly he yelps as he trips over his own foot and the arm tightly holding his waist is all that stops him crashing in an undignified heap to the floor.  
  
He ends up with his face mashed against his husband’s waistcoat and his hands scrabbling at his sides in an effort to remain upright. Realising he’s finally stable he pulls back slowly, blushing deeply and rooting his eyes firmly to his shoes.  
  
As he starts to stutter out an apology his husband tightens the grip at his waist, leans his head in towards Stiles’ and brushes his lips briefly against his cheek before pulling back.  
  
‘Do not apologise. It couldn’t be helped and anyway, I enjoyed seeing you blush.’  
  
With a slight uptick to his mouth, too small to be a smile, the Duke turns and walks away through one of the many doors at the end of the hall.  
  
For a moment Stiles is frozen, the fleeting warmth of his husband’s lips like a brand upon his skin, the feeling of that faint brush of stubble and the warm, masculine scent lingering despite the distance now between them.  
  
The Duke stops in the doorway, turns and raise an eyebrow in a question and holds out a hand towards him.  
  
Stiles almost stumbles again in his eagerness to cross the room and grasp his hand tightly in his husband’s. Smiling, he allows himself to be guided from the hall.  
  
  
_Derek_  
  
  
Derek could not remember enjoying showing someone round his ancestral home as much as he does Stiles. He only includes a handful of the copious maze of grand rooms; his favourite drawing room, the green sitting room which always looks lovely in the light of dusk, the ball room and finally the library.  
  
Watching the looks of awe and wonderment openly flit across his husband’s pretty face, Derek feels as though he’d be happy watching him for hours.  
  
He loves how, as much as Stiles is constantly censoring his words and actions, his face is another matter entirely. The truth is constantly written across it, something he’s obviously unable to control and Derek is so glad of it.  
  
They’re currently standing in the library, a vast room with high arched ceilings and tall mullioned windows throwing a soft light over the innumerable shelves of books and myriad of sofas and comfortable chairs grouped in several areas around the room, littered with cushions and throws.  
  
Stiles turns to him with a sweet smile. ‘This is my favourite room I think, if you ever lose me you’ll know where to find me.’  
  
Derek is standing next to a side table, idly flicking through an old book that had been left there. He keeps his eyes on the book as he replies. ‘Well if that’s so then I think I’ll have to start spending more time in here.’  
  
He glances back up in time to catch the pink flush of embarrassment splash across the boy’s cheeks.  
  
Two long strides have him in touching distance, as his right hand curls round Stiles’ waist to settle once more at his back, the other gently takes hold of his chin to softly tilt it up.  
  
Nervous brown eyes meet his, a question in them that Derek is more than happy to answer.  
  
‘I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I saw your portrait.’  
  
At that he leans in and captures his wife’s lips with his own, tightening the arm at his back to pull that slight body in to press firmly against his own.  
  
  
_Stiles_  
  
  
Crushed tightly against the hard, firm heat of his husband’s body, lips opening to let in his slick, searching tongue, Stiles feels utterly overwhelmed.  
  
Swept along by this fit of passion he doesn’t know whether to press forward or push away. Instead he finds himself clutching the Duke’s coat desperately, practically hanging from him as his muscles seem to go entirely on strike.  
  
All he can concentrate on is the firm grip of those strong arms around his waist holding him tight, that hot tongue plundering his mouth so throughly, sensations he’d never felt before, could never have imagined in his wildest dreams.  
  
It’s only as his husband finally pulls back, tongue slipping slackly from his mouth, arms loosening at his sides and an odd, hesitant look on his face that the thought creeps into Stiles’ mind that perhaps he should have reciprocated.  
  
Surely one of the most important duties in his new role of Duchess is to give pleasure to his new husband, most surely in their marriage bed.  
  
How is he to do this when even a simple kiss has him frozen and rigid as a fence post. His first failure of married life has him feeling hollow with shame and the frown marring the Duke’s handsome face does nothing to lessen this.  
  
He forces his lips, still tingling from the passionate assault, into something resembling a smile and takes the Duke’s hand in his.  
  
‘I’m sorry Your Grace, you caught me off guard is all. I will do better, I promise.’  
  
He squeezes the warm hand in his and steels himself to look the Duke directly in the eye, nervous of what he will find there.  
  
The frown is still in place but the look in those disconcertingly fine eyes holds no anger or irritation, rather concern coupled with a slight confusion which lends a hereto unseen softness to the Duke’s face. A look that nevertheless has Stiles holding his breath.  
  
‘Darling’ his husband clutches his hand ever tighter and brings the other up to grip his chin..  
  
Just as he’s about to speak further the Duke stops abruptly, his lips tightening together. His frown deepens and the soft look leaves his eyes, chased away by some sudden thought that Stiles is at a loss to decipher.  
  
Some shutter seems to have come down to close his mind and he turns away, his hand slipping from Stiles’.  
  
‘We do not have much time before dinner will be served. I will have a servant show you our private rooms and you must wash and change. I have business to discuss with Boyd until then. Please follow me.’  
  
With those clipped, cold words he strides from the room leaving Stiles to wander miserably in his stead, wondering despairingly how things could have gone wrong so suddenly.  
  
  
_Derek_  
  
  
Holed up in his study with his steward, the roaring fire casting an oppressive heat throughout the room, Boyd’s calm, emotionless voice droning diligently on about wheat quotas and soil erosion, Derek’s mind slips easily away, thoughts fixating hopelessly on a certain brown eyed, loose limbed boy.  
  
His husband. A mere child really and now his to protect and care for.  
  
For the first time since he’d made his decision so assuredly he wonders if he may have made a mistake in choosing Stiles.  
  
Oh no doubt the boy was wonderful in so many ways, beautiful and trusting, all innocence and tender glances. There was also a shrewd intelligence behind those bright eyes and it all added up to the potential to be a truly great Duchess.  
  
However, to be entrusted with all that potential, to be the one who could nurture and foster it but could just as easily ruin and degrade it filled Derek with a crushing anxiety he’d never felt before.  
  
Up until now Stiles had been a portrait in a frame, a grieving child sat quietly in a drawing room, he’d been simply an idea to Derek. This pretty boy he’d so firmly believed could become an illustrious Duchess.  
  
Now he was a reality, in Derek’s home, in his arms and soon to be in his bed.  
  
And that was the other thing. It had become blindingly clear when he’d taken him in his arms and kissed him so throughly just how innocent his new wife was.  
  
Of course as a carrier in good society, despite not being out, it was fully expected that his bride would enter the marriage chamber as a virgin but all too often this was simply a technicality.  
  
Most young women and carriers of noble birth spent a great deal of their youth in dark corners at parties, pockets of shrubbery, and dusty stables exhaustively exploring their budding desires with the eager young men of society and in many cases, when they proved unavailable or unobliging, with whichever stablehand or gardener proved most willing and discrete.  
  
Obviously they would ensure they would remain intact and that these explorations were clandestine and hidden away to avoid potential scandal. However it was an unspoken agreement amongst society that such trysts were generally decreed to be harmless and in fact put the individuals in good stead for their wedding night.  
  
Stiles however was not one of this glittering, jaded set of socialites who bent and twisted the rules to fit their own needs. He was from an honest, respectable country family where a good reputation was vital for a young carrier’s future and could not be risked in any way. His father had clearly made great pains to protect his child from any nefarious influence.  
  
Derek had been so eager to taste him, to hold him close, that it’d taken a while for him to realise that his bride was rigid in his arms and that his mouth, though it had opened up for him so easily, was similarly unresponsive. The boy had remained frozen either in shock or fear.  
  
Derek had felt his stomach drop in that moment of realisation, a sickening feeling stirring in his belly. Guilt warring with deep disappointment.  
  
His first instinct had been to comfort his young wife, whose desperate apologies were so distressing to his ears. One hand clutching his, the other raised to stroke his cheek, he’d been ready to assuage the boy’s fears when the dreadful thought lit up his mind that this would be the last thing Stiles would want.  
  
Being touched by his husband had caused his distress, distance was what was now needed.  
  
He’d backed away, leaving the hall as quickly as he could, rushing to locate the housekeeper to momentarily pass Stiles’ care to her until dinner.  
  
Everything that had so excited and entranced him about his chosen Duchess now seemed like bricks that would slowly stack up one by one to create a wall between them.  
  
The boy was so naive, so innocent and Derek would have to be the one who destroyed that, who would have to break him down in so many ways only to build him back up as the strong, confident Duchess of Hale.  
  
At the same time he would have to nurture and care for the boy, provide a safe home and a warm, loving bed.  
  
The intricate conflicts that now seemed to be involved in creating the perfect Duchess and wife baffled and frankly terrified the Duke, a weighty feeling of dread, that he’d made a mistake that could never be corrected, filled him, sending a cold shiver through his body despite the suffocating warmth of the room.  
  
No, he corrected himself as Boyd moved seamlessly onto the rebuilding of one of the tithe barns, these thoughts were simply the product of nerves, he was overthinking things.  
  
He was merely anxious about the wedding night and the aborted caress had understandably twisted those nerves into a sense of foreboding.  
  
Consummation was vital to ensure the marriage’s legality and whilst Derek was far from being a blushing virgin his conquests had hereto been limited to harlots in the smart brothels of London or the occasional loose, bawdy bar maid.  
  
Fragile, tense virgins were a commodity to be savoured for a gentleman’s marriage bed and were rarely tasted before.  
  
Up to now he’d been filled with exhilarating fantasies of deflowering his young bride. The thought of being the first to undress the boy, to peel the fabric away from his soft skin and eagerly explore that sweet, pliable body, the first to see those pretty eyes widen in pleasure, the first to hear the gasps of surprised delight, these thoughts had subsumed his mind though the days that had passed since he’d made his decision.  
  
Only now did he truly comprehend the truth of the situation, that tonight he would be taking to his bed a bride who was only a few years out of childhood, a youth who had seemingly been totally isolated and shielded to the point that a tongue in his mouth had shocked him silly.  
  
His reaction to an artless embrace had cast a fearful shadow across Derek’s heart. The boy clearly had no idea of what tonight would hold for him and Derek near shook with unease at the thought of having to show him.  
  
He stood abruptly, Boyd falling into silence at the sudden movement. Stalking over to the walnut drinks cabinet stood in the corner of his study he uncorked a crystal decanter and poured a couple of inches of deep, umber brown whiskey into a glass.  
  
His steward raised an eyebrow but said nothing.  
  
‘You’ll join me?’ he offered.  
  
Boyd glanced down at the pile of papers in front of him and shrugged. ‘Why not’.  
  
As he and Boyd sat in comfortable silence in the peaceful chamber waiting for the dinner bell, Derek sipped at his whiskey and let the warmth suffuse him slowly, feeling the nerves and tension start to slip gradually away.  
  
Yes, here lay an answer. A few tots of dutch courage and he’d be ready to be the finest husband in the county in no time.  
  
  
_Stiles_  
  
  
As his husband fretted downstairs his bride was doing the very same in their sumptuous private rooms upstairs.  
  
Stiles had been taken aback when the maid had first shown him his new chambers.  
  
Of course they were large and luxurious, with fine, well made furniture, opulent floor coverings and tall, elegant windows looking out onto immaculate lawns leading to a sparkling lake in the near distance.  
  
All was as expected however the shock had come with the discovery that he’d be sharing a bedroom with the Duke.  
  
He had heartbreakingly little knowledge of the intimate details of aristocratic married life but the one thing he had been confident of was that they never shared a bedroom, apart from the occasional conjugal visit.  
  
He only realised now, as he stood at the base of the huge, mahogany bed he’d be expected to share every night with a complete stranger, how much he’d been relying on the idea of his own room, his own private space to escape to if things became too much.  
  
He did at least have his own sitting room.  
  
They’d entered from the landing into a large ante room, beautifully appointed but with a distinctly unused feeling.  
  
A door to the right led through to their bedroom, in turn a door from there then opened into Derek’s own sitting room which far more resembled a library.  
  
A door to the left of the ante chamber led into Stiles’ own private sitting room which he had to admit he’d rather fallen in love with.  
  
The room was light, open and airy with large mullioned windows on two sides, one giving out onto a small balcony.  
  
Two large settees and a chaise longue upholstered in a pale primrose yellow were dotted about the room. Small lacquered side tables bowed under the weight of large blue and white vases overflowing with lush pink peonies, several generous, empty bookshelves were waiting to be filled and an elegant polished desk pushed against one of the windows completed the room.  
  
Instantly Stiles had let out a deep breath he hadn’t realised he’s been holding.  
  
The room felt like comfort and calm, everything he’d been craving since he’d climbed into a strange  carriage to be carried to church early that very morning.  
  
For the first time since his arrival he could actually envision making his home here, at least in this room if nowhere else in this vast mansion.  
  
A mere thirty minutes later found him reclining blissfully in a huge copper bath tub set behind a screen in the master bedroom.  
  
Completely submerged up to his chin in piping hot, floral scented water Stiles mused idly what a strange and paradoxical feeling it was to have his body so beautifully relaxed and yet his mind spinning so anxiously at the same time.  
  
So many fears were parading though his imagination that it was impossible to fix on the one that worried him most.  
  
Should it be the overwhelming size of the household he’d be expected to manage, the fact that he was so far from anyone and any place he knew and was surrounded by perfect strangers or the fact that in only a handful of turns of the clock he’d have to give his body to a man he barely knew.  
  
As the most immediate problem his spiralling panic seemed to mostly focus on the last.  
  
Stiles knew he’d been sheltered, even for a carrier. After the death of his mother his father’s coping mechanism was to centre every protective and caring instinct onto Stiles.  
  
He’d been unable to save his wife but nothing would take his precious son from him.  
  
Therefore Stiles’ scant impressions of the intimate responsibilities of a marriage and what was expected of a dutiful carrier were taken almost wholly from the handful of parental approved romances he’d found within their small library back in Herefordshire.  
  
However naive he may be, stupid Stiles was not and he was well aware that lines such as ‘time stood still as their bodies merged magically as one’ from his favourite and much thumbed novel The Rake’s Beloved, though stirring to the imagination, could hardly be treated as practical advice for his marriage bed.  
  
Of course he’d gleamed small pockets of information over the years, mostly from overhearing the servants talk.  
  
So he knew his husband would strip the clothes from his body…. that he’d lie atop of him…. knew that it would hurt.  
  
The intricate details though and what the Duke would expect of him were a mystery which he’d most likely discover the alarming answers to before the next sunrise.  
  
As that thought echoed in his head it was joined by the louder echo of the dinner gong sounding downstairs.  
  
How long had he been stewing here for!  
He launched himself up out of the bath tub, a wave of water drenching the floorboards.  
  
Being late to dinner would be the worst impression he needed to make for his distant husband and his intimidating household.  
  
He wrapped the linen cloth around his damp body, rang the bell for the valet and stood shivering by the bed trying to summon his reserves of doubtful courage to get him through the evening that stretched ahead.  
  
  
_Derek_  
  
  
Fingers drumming restlessly against the polished, dark walnut table the Duke threw back the last of his bordeaux, sighing as he placed the glass back down, a footman seamlessly gliding forward to instantly refill it.  
  
Fifteen minutes had passed since the dinner gong had sounded and the new Duchess was nowhere to be seen.  
  
As it was the boy’s first night in the household Derek was trying to remain calm and accommodating but it was difficult.  
  
He was the first to admit that he was not the most patient man, the combination of an uncompromising personality and a near peerless social position meaning he was rarely required to be.  
  
Eighteen minutes later than expected his bride entered the formal dining room with damp hair, flushed cheeks and an apology on his lips.  
  
He looked perfectly improper and completely ravishing and Derek felt his cock harden at the sight.  
  
Clearing his throat he politely accepted his bride’s apology and indicated to the servants to bring in the first course.  
  
Throughout the soup course not a word passed between them, polite observations regarding the weather and recent society news were exchanged during the fish and by the time the beef was served a reasonable facile of a conversation was starting to take place.  
  
As Derek lifted his newly refilled glass to his lips he hazily observed what a truly lovely voice Stiles had.  
  
Low and gentle with a slight burr to it that he found immensely attractive and soothing.  
  
The boy was haltingly describing the countryside that he’d loved to explore around his family’s home, the mellow cadence and soft delivery easing Derek’s harassed, muggy mind.  
  
Sounds started to float together and his eyelids felt heavy, his limbs warm and sluggish. As the long journey, copious alcohol and stress of the day started to take it’s toll and his mind started to drift into numbness, the hand still clutching his wine glass spasmed slightly sending the crystal careening across the table and smashing decisively and loudly into smithereens against his wife’s dinner plate.  
  
Stiles looked down in shock at the shards of glass littered across his plate and in his lap and then turned those huge, questioning eyes up to his husband.  
  
Derek rose shakily from the table, sputtering his apologies, suddenly feeling dizzy from the wine.  
  
‘You must excuse me, the tiredness of the journey seems to have suddenly overcome me. I will retire to my study for the remainder of the evening. I will ask for dessert to be sent up to your sitting room.’  
  
With a short bow he turned to retreat unsteadily and with the little dignity he could muster from the room.  
  
‘Please Your Grace,’  
  
That soft voice stops him in his tracks but he doesn’t turn, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.  
  
‘Should I… I mean….will you be….’  
  
There were a few beats of silence where Derek would swear he could hear the boy’s heart beating in his chest.  
  
Finally…..’Should I wait up for you Sire?’  
  
Another few moment’s of silence follows before Derek can muster a reply.  
  
“Yes….yes you must. I will be up later.’  
  
With that the Duke hurries from the room in search of his study, his whiskey and the solace they both would bring.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this chapter is the wedding night and I'm sure it will come as no surprise to readers that things do not go well.
> 
> Extra warnings for this chapter include dubious consent and painful/bad sex.
> 
> If this is something that will squick you please skip this chapter, the general plot of the story will still make sense without it.
> 
> And for those of you who do read it, I'm sorry but things will get better I promise!
> 
> Also this chapter is solely from Stiles' POV, we'll hear from Derek next chapter.

 

 

_Stiles_

 

Stiles paces his room for about twenty minutes, studiously ignoring the delicious chocolate mousse that a maid had deposited on a side table shortly after his arrival.

It’s rare for him to reject dessert but his stomach feels hollow and his whole body strums with anxiety.

Realising the pacing is simply worsening his nerves he slumps bonelessly onto a settee, sinking into the plush cushions.

He takes a deep breath into his lungs and pushes it out slowly in an attempt to calm himself. ‘You’re being foolish’ he orders himself… ‘this is simply your duty, nothing more. Countless carriers have been through the same before and they didn’t fall apart. You will not shame your family by failing in this simple task.’

At the thought of his family…. of his father so recently taken from him, Stiles feels that crippling ache of grief fill his heart. 

The last few days spent worrying over his impending marriage and the worries and exhaustion of today have pushed his anguish to the back of his mind but it now returns full force.

The handful of occasions over the previous years that his thoughts had turned briefly to this moment in his life he’d always imagined having his father nearby to give him strength.

Not in the bedroom of course but throughout the day he’d have been there, walking him down the aisle, dancing with him at his reception, taking him aside and whispering words of comfort and advice before his husband whisked him away for good.

His father had always been his pillar of strength and guidance and Stiles felt so lost without him, the idea that he would never hear his voice or be folded into the warmth of those arms again choked Stiles with a pain so sharp that it felt like a knife lodged in his lungs.

Desperately trying to ignore that crushing ache Stiles wandered through into their bedroom. Now was not a time for thoughts, clearly they would only distress him. Action was clearly what was required and maybe if he prepared himself for the night ahead he would start to feel better.

The problem was that he had only the vaguest idea of what he was supposed to be preparing for.

As he entered the bedroom he found that not only had the main sconces been lit but that additional candles were littered about the room casting a beautiful, hazy glow across the chamber.

‘Romantic’ his mind offered up and for the first time since the their disastrous embrace in the library Stiles felt a fission of excitement thrill through him at the thought.

He’d been so overwhelmed with fears of the unknown and worry about failing in his duties as a wife and Duchess in the last few hours that the small, creeping desire that had gradually been forming since that first, awkward meeting with his future husband had been crushed and pushed aside.

Looking about the room, at the vast, silk covered bed and the fluttering light of dozens of candles Stiles felt an echoing flutter between his legs, an unfamiliar feeling but not unpleasant.

As he drew closer to the bed he saw that a delicate, white cloth was draped across it. He picked it up and as he held it up to the light he saw that it was a finely woven nightshirt, near transparent and with lace detailing around the neck and sleeves.

It was far too small and feminine for the Duke so Stiles could only assume it was left for him. By rights he should call for the valet to undress him and help him carry out his nightly ablutions but the idea of any kind of company right now felt unbearable.

And after all he’d had a bath barely two hours ago, normally only a weekly chore back home, so he was surely as clean as he needed to be.

He’d shared a manservant with his father previously so was used to often having to undress himself. He found the tiny ivory buttons of his waistcoat and undershirt difficult to unpick, fumbling with nervous energy but managed to remove both garments eventually. 

His boots, stockings and breeches were far easier to discard and he soon found himself standing naked in that vast, chilly chamber.

He shivers slightly in the cold and quickly slips the night shirt over his head. It slivers like a second skin over his body, cool and sleek it clings to him obscenely. He wonders at it for a moment before realising that it’s a garment clearly designed to incite desire and lust and therefore is nothing like anything he’s ever worn before.

As a young, unattached carrier with a protective father everything he’d worn previously had been conceived solely with modesty and respectability in mind.

Despite the deceptive innocence of the white silk Stiles knows that this is as an obscene a garment as a decent carrier will ever wear.

Pulling aside the heavy coverings on the bed, Stiles clambers in, shifting until he’s pretty much in the centre. he doesn’t know which side his husband prefers so feels this is the safest bet, that way the Duke can place him where he likes once he’s done with him.

As he pulls the night shirt down where it’s gathered around his thighs and tries to display his limbs in an alluring position, which actually just feels awkward, his thoughts start to turn naturally to the man who’ll be joining him in bed shortly.

‘At least he’s handsome’ is the first thought that bursts unbidden into his brain. And it’s true, the Duke has a perfectly carved face, with alarmingly exquisite eyes and a fine, tall figure with the immaculate bearing of the officer he was once was.

Yes he should be thankful for that, after all the choice was not his own and he could have ended up with some grossly fat, sweaty old man when the very thought of his touch would sicken him to his stomach. He’d seen young carriers and women at the handful of gatherings he’d been allowed to attend stuck in marriages such as this, bonded forever to creepy old men who clearly revolted them.

Also, whilst his husband’s behaviour was confusing and full of mixed messages, at one point seeming to desire him wholeheartedly and the next moment appearing to be repelled by him, there was nothing in his actions to convey that he was a cruel man. 

After all a man could be as beautiful as Adonis but if he delighted in brutality and callousness, determined to punish his bride for every imagined slight and mistake then the marriage would be harrowing indeed.

No, the Duke did not seem the type of man to delight in other’s pain or the easy infliction of it. From everything he’d previously heard of the man and the few hours he’d know him he at least appeared to be an honourable sort of gentleman and this thought more than anything gave Stiles hope that their marriage may not be an unhappy one.

Leaning back and sinking down into the plush, goose down pillows he sighs and feels the aches and exhaustion of the day suddenly overtake his body.

There’s a clock on the mantlepiece which reads that it’s gone ten o clock. He’s ignorant of his husband’s nighttime routine and so isn’t aware if this lateness is unusual or not.

Surely the last words he gave Stiles before leaving the dining room indicated that he’d be taking his conjugal rights tonight. After all the marriage would not be legal until he did and from the violent passion of his earlier clinch this was clearly a man of strong desires and therefore unlikely to wait for fulfilment from a bride who was legally obliged to provide it.

Most importantly Stiles needs to replace the terrible impression he made on the Duke in the library where his surprise and inexperience showed him to be the frigid, fumbling child he _was_ rather than the confident, sensual wife he’s determined to be.

Despite the worries ricocheting around his head and the tension thrilling through his body, the fatigue of the long journey and the draining weariness of the stress he’s been under for the last few weeks takes it’s toll. 

Regardless of his determination to stay awake to welcome his husband to their bed and assure him of of his acquiescence to whatever may be to come, Stiles drifts off somewhere close to midnight, head lolling back into the pillows, limbs finally relaxing, sprawling messily out across the bed.

 

He jerks awake some time later, disoriented and confused. Looking about the room he can see that most of the candles have burned out leaving only a handful burning low casting a paltry, flickering light throughout the room.

Narrowing his eyes he squints at the clock over the mantlepiece trying to make out the time. He thinks it reads nearly three o clock but he can’t be sure in the gloom.

He wonders what woke him up and is answered by a loud noise from the ante room, a sound of someone falling heavily against furniture. 

He pulls himself up to a sitting position against the pillows and waits anxiously. A moment later the door slams open and Derek lurches through ricocheting firstly against the door then into the armoire standing close by.

He steadies himself against it with his hands and then slowly turns to look at Stiles. 

Even from this distance and in terrible light Stiles can see his husband is horrendously drunk. He’s swaying where he stands and is face is red and sweaty, eyes unfocused in his head.

Stiles instantly tenses, ignorant of how to proceed with this unexpected development. The Duke had seemed a little tipsy at dinner, spilling his wine and smashing his glass but this appeared to be a whole other level of intoxication.

His internal confusion over what to do is suddenly interrupted when his husband staggers forward towards the bed. “My darling, I’ve come for you….have you been waiting for me?

The words are slurred and their impact lessened when their speaker stumbles and half collapses against the end of the bed.

Stiles instinctively shifts back further against the pillows as the Duke swears under his breath and starts to fumble with his clothing.

It takes forever for him to grapple with the buttons and laces of his garments, resorting to angrily ripping them from his body when his frustration becomes too much. During these minutes Stiles simply gapes at him, no idea whether he should be trying to talk to his husband, whether he should be helping him remove his clothes, whether he should be running from the room.

As it is he does nothing, stunned to stillness, like a rabbit in the headlights. 

Finally his husband pulls the last of his clothes from his body, grumbling under his breath as he does so. He clambers erratically onto the end of the bed, crouching on his hands and knees and turning his drunken gaze fully on Stiles.

Feeling the heat of that open stare Stiles blushes and pulls the sheets further up in his body nearly to his chin in an effort to hide from those piercing eyes.

‘My bride, my beautiful bride’ his husband slurs as he crawls unsteadily closer. Within moments he’s mere inches from Stiles, hot, whiskey soured breath puffing against his face. 

A hand reaches out and brushes his skin, taking the collar of his night shirt between two fingers and pulling it to the side as far as it’ll go, exposing his neck and collarbone to that intense gaze.

In his drunken stupor the Duke then attempts to also lift his other arm to touch him, his only support, and ends up crashing face first into Stiles’ chest, his body slamming down heavily onto his, head wedged into the side of his neck.

‘God damn!’ he barks, muffled though it is by Stiles’ skin. The rest of his curses are lost to Stiles’ ears, frozen as he is under the weight of his husband. only thin sheets and the delicate shirt he’s wearing come between himself and that heavy, hot, naked body atop him.

The heat soaks through the fabric, he can feel his chest heaving with shallow breath and his neck is sweaty where his husband is murmuring into it.

He tries to draw strength from deep inside himself, to gather his resources and focus once more on his duties. He refuses to fail this time despite the erroneous circumstances and the panic which flickers beneath his skin.

“Sire?’ he questions hesitantly. ‘Is there something you need me to do?’

At this, the Duke finally lifts his head and attempts to focus his eyes, his heavy browed expression one of confusion and agitation.

‘Yes…yes…we must…I want….you must…’ With that he tails off and with a sigh lifts himself back to lean back on his haunches. His hands scrabble at the sheets Stiles still has gathered tightly in his grip and pulls hard at them.

Reluctantly Stiles releases them and watches detachedly as his husband pulls them right back and throws them away to the side of the bed.

The hungry look is back on the Duke’s face and Stiles brings his hands across to cover himself as best he can.

‘No, no, don’t…you are so perfect, don’t hide from me.’ The words would sound beautiful to Stiles if only they weren't drunkenly slurred and accompanied by flicks of spittle.

With slow determination he moves his hands slowly to his sides and turns his head unflinchingly to the left, fixing his gaze firmly on the wall.

He feels his husband grip the hem of his night shirt roughly and tries not to flinch. Crudely and quickly the material is pushed up his quaking body, bunching up under his armpits and then being pulled up and over his head revealing his pale nudity to the cool, night air.

Closing his eyes, all he can hear for a moment are the heavy, laboured breaths of the Duke and then suddenly there are hands running over his body, rough and hot, they’re everywhere. Grasping and coaxing his delicate skin, leaving bruises in their wake, leaving not a single inch of available flesh untouched or unspoilt. 

A thrill runs through him at the touch despite his fear, an electricity that thrums and pools warmly in his groin. The weird feeling of another touching him, and touching him so lustily, sparks a desire within him that is as unexpected as it is welcome.

He lets out a soft groan, one that is swallowed up by the tumultuous moans and sighs issuing from his husband. 

Stiles opens his eyes and finally turns his head back in time to see the Duke press his body back down to cover him once again, hands still moving, spreading light tendrils of desire across his skin like a cobweb, thick cock pressing hard and hot against his stomach. 

The Duke presses their lips together and whispers ‘Stiles’ into his mouth as he ruts slowly against him. Stiles tries to hesitantly match the rhythm, pushing back in tiny increments as much as he dares, the warmth building in his stomach, his dick twitching. 

The feel of his husband’s heat and weight surrounding him, the wet slick of his mouth against his, the warm, hot slide of his cock, these sensations utterly overwhelm him but also cause his hips to rock in a steady rhythm and his arms to come up and grip the sweaty, heaving back of the man atop him in an effort to bring him closer, ever closer. 

Suddenly the movement stops and rough hands grab his shoulders and turn him brusquely over to lie on his belly. 

His head spins for a moment at the sudden motion and he feels briefly claustrophobic with his face pressed down into the thick pillows. 

He’s instantly distracted by the weight of his husband falling heavily onto his back, clearly losing his balance. ‘Ooophhh’ he breathes out into the bedding, gasping to pull air into his lungs under the solid heft pressing down upon him. 

He tries to wriggle, hoping it’ll alert the Duke to his distress but his husband simply groans in response and kisses the back of his neck sloppily. 

Suddenly the sensation of fingers grasping greedily at the globes of his bottom distract him from his distress. Quickly those fingers find his tight hole, rubbing avidly across it and then to his horror, a thick, rough digit starts to push it’s way inside.

He moans out at the intrusion, the sound disappearing into the pillow. The dragging sensation of the finger pushing it’s way dryly into his body is painful and unpleasant to the point that he actually tries to push his body up and away from the bed in an effort to dislodge the Duke. 

The weight upon him is such that he barely moves an inch and he starts to panic as the finger moves deeper inside.

However as suddenly as it appeared the offending appendage is removed and he feels his husband peel his sweaty body away from his own. 

With a grunt, the Duke rolls his body over to the side of the bed and starts to rummage through an assortment of items clustered on the small table set next to it.  

Stiles hadn’t noticed this table in his earlier sweep of the room, focus too concentrated elsewhere, but he hears the clink of glass bottles knocking into each other and his husband swearing softly under his breath.

With a lurch he’s back and looming over Stiles’ body once more. Stiles hasn’t dared move, opting to lie frozen in the position he was placed in. After all, his husband placed him there, surely moving would count as a failure on his part?

The finger is back but as it brushes his hole he can feel a cool slickness traced across his skin. This time as it pushes back in there is still a sharp ache but the painful tug of dry skin is gone and it slips in without too much effort.

As it sets up a gradual rhythm siding in and out Stiles can hear the Duke’s breathing deepen, becoming a labouring gasp, incongruously loud against the utter silence of the bed chamber.

Soon, another finger is added and then another, twisting and pressing against the delicate walls of his passage. The cramping pain makes him wince but he tries to keep his small cries hidden, pressing his face deep against the bedding so his husband won’t hear and be disappointed by him.

Occasionally those fingers press against something that has Stiles crying out for another reason, a spark of light, of heat and fever that has him curling his toes and arching his back in bewildered pleasure.

Those moments are few though as in his drunken state his husband is rough and careless in his touches, single-mindedly chasing his own needs.

As the ministrations continue Stiles can feel tears welling and his throat tighten. 

Where is the concern his husband showed him earlier in carriage? Where are the tender touches and soft kisses from the library? It’s as if a stranger wearing the Duke’s face like a mask is sharing the bed.

As the fingers slip completely from his entrance and he feels nothing but cool air against his skin Stiles tenses, gripping the sheets beneath him. Whilst he may be an innocent he knows his ordeal is not yet over and that the worse is yet to come. 

The Duke leans back over him, hands pressing down each side of him, caging him in. This close he can hear him muttering distractedly to himself. ‘Good boy…yes…so beautiful….so good….I will take care of you….my boy….’

Stiles clenches his eyes tight shut as he feels that fat cock nudge insistently at his hole. A loud, unbidden cry is punched out of him as it pushes forwards deep into his passage. 

His cry of pain is drowned out by a loud grunt of pleasure from the man above him as he impales his cock into Stiles’ slender body.

As his bowels cramp and his entrance throbs in sharp pain Stiles tries to calm himself with the thought that this is it, this is the worst he has to endure tonight, it’s done.

But then his husband slumps forward draping himself once again over his back and his cock jerks forward inside him, pushing ever deeper, feeling as though it’s coring Stiles from the inside out. 

Before he has any time to adjust the Duke starts to pull back and then push in again, setting up an unsteady and raw rhythm that makes Stiles grit his teeth and try not to howl into the pillow.

He lies as still and as quietly as he can, a repetition sounding in his head. ‘Do your duty, do your duty, do your duty.’  

Strangely it’s not the pain that nearly unleashes his panic but the stench of alcohol upon his husband’s breath that is being puffed out hotly against his neck.

The spicy smell of whiskey reminds him sharply of his father, he’d taken to the spirit shortly after his wife’s death and the sense memory has tears choking him and tendrils of panic race through his torso, making it even harder to gasp for breath.

He opens his eyes and turns his head to the side, his punched out, soft cries slightly louder now but still unnoticed by his husband. He fixes his gaze on the intricate, painted Japanese screen he’d bathed behind earlier and tries to focus his mind on the delicate figures swirled in blue, anything to distract him from his panic.

The thrusts of that thick cock pushing him apart start to increase, the pace becoming quicker and steadier and once again, with every few strokes, Stiles feels that spark of electricity flicker within him sending flashes of warmth up his spine. Bewilderingly it seems somehow connected to every part of him, his skin thrums with heat, his nipples harden and as the sensation rushes through him he tries to rut haphazardly against the bed, trying to chase and deepen the feeling.

The moments don’t last long however and each time they fade Stiles is left groaning in pain, even more aware of the ache that fills his body.

Suddenly his husband’s thrusts start to speed up and become erratic. His grunts grow louder and coarser and as he plunges wildly in between Stiles’ outstretched thighs he bites down on his neck harshly, his loud groan sounding pained as he pushes forcefully in one last time and comes, spilling within Stiles’ exhausted body. 

For a fretful moment Stiles fears that the Duke will simply lay there for the rest of the night, slumped over him, pressing him sweatily into the sheets.

However with a fatigued sigh his husband pulls himself out, eliciting a sharp wince from Stiles and flops heavily over onto the other side of the bed.

After a couple of minutes pass with no further movement he dares to lift his head and take a look at his husband. He’s slumped naked on his front, limbs sprawled out, sweat glistening across his back. 

As Stiles concentrates his hearing he can hear quiet, snuffling snores emanate from that side of the bed.

The Duke is already asleep, which means his ordeal is over. He’s survived the marriage bed and endured it without any shameful or undutiful behaviour on his part.

Despite the aches in his body Stiles feels an odd kind of exhilaration, maybe a reluctant feeling of pride in his own strength and certainly a powerful sensation of relief that it’s over.

Even though it’s far from the last time he’ll have to let his husband take his conjugal rights, in fact it’s only the start, at least he now knows what to prepare for and he’s made it though the first night which everyone says is the worst.

With his entire body screaming at him in distress he gathers his strength and slowly pulls himself up and staggers from the bed. His legs are shaky like a foal’s and the pain in his lower back is overwhelming and causes him to shuffle slowly and ungracefully across the floorboards towards the screen. 

Once behind it he realises the servants have dutifully drained all the water from the bath tub but a damp cloth he used to wash himself with earlier has been left draped over the side.

Using this he attempts to clean himself as best he can, his hands trembling as he swipes lightly across his behind and between his thighs, cringing as he sees the pinky mix of blood and semen that stains the cloth afterwards.

Suddenly utterly exhausted and worn out, he throws the cloth back into the tub and creeps weakly back to the bed.

His husband is still snoring drunkenly where he left him but Stiles climbs as carefully and quietly as he can onto the mattress, fearful of waking him.

There is a damp patch on the bed but it’s too dark to see if it’s blood or semen and at this moment Stiles is too tired to care all that much.

He cannot see where his night shirt was thrown to and he’s too weary in both body and mind to get up and search for it. He pulls the silky sheets over him and lies on his back staring numbly at the dark tapestried canopy above his head.

He tries to disregard the pain in his body and the swirling whirl of emotions tearing through his head. Instead he attempts to fix his mind on the future, to picture himself as the future Duchess of Hale, parading eminently on his husband’s arm, at court, at engagements, throwing glittering soirees with ease and aplomb during the day and satisfying the Duke’s every lust and whim during the night. 

Yes.. he can do this …he can make his husband proud, can do his duty as a wife and live up to his family’s memory. He just needs to get through the next few hours…then the next few days…and weeks…and months….then all will one day be well he’s sure.

And this is how he finally falls into an exhausted, agitated slumber. Heartsore, aching and grief stricken yet still dreaming desperately of a better, happier future.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been almost 10 months since I last posted on this story. All I can do is apologise and hope that some people still want to read this. Real life got in the way and then I lost my confidence in writing. I do have the story all mapped out though and hope to post once a week
> 
> Just wanted to say thanks to those people who posted lovely, supportive comments on this work whilst I was away, you really helped me want to get back to finish this story and gave me the confidence boost I needed :)

_Derek_

 

His first conscious thought is that he’s cold. His skin is prickling under the cool, early morning air and his limbs shiver lightly, the faint movements slowly rousing him from deep unconsciousness.

His second thought is that he’s in pain. A searing, ripping pain in his head that makes him want to vomit and then disappear back into unconsciousness once more.

A faint light is brushing against his eyelids and he opens them slowly, fearful of the world beyond them. 

The pretty dawn light is falling into the room through the bay window, decorating the room in a gentle blueish hue. 

As he lifts his head inches from the bed his vision swims for a moment, the room swaying hazily and sickenly until he returns his heavy head to the solid security of the bed.

So a hangover then. Whilst he partakes of liquor and wine with fair regularity it’s rare for him to be so in his cups as to feel this way the next morning. And, added to the rotten nature of his body and soul upon waking, he was also experiencing a worrying blank where the evening before should sit in his memory.

He could remember the awkward dinner and then stewing for a while in his study…..but how long did he stay there? And how did he make his way to bed? And where was…. ‘God damn!’ 

He lurched upright, stopping briefly and sucking in a lungful of cool, morning air to halt the sudden urge to hurl that overtook him at the sudden movement. 

Twisting his body round slowly to avoid a repeat of such sensations, his eyes gradually took in a small, lean lump hidden under the white sheets on the bed beside him. The tiny shape was curled slightly in on itself and as near to the edge of the bed as was possible without falling down the side of it. 

The top of a head was just visible poking out from the mound of linen and blankets and as he leaned closer he could see the fabric moving faintly with the boy’s shallow breaths. 

Stiles. His bride. The very person he should expect to find sharing his bed this morning yet somehow it still shocked him into stillness.

A heavy lead of fear dropped in his stomach at the thought that his wedding night had passed and yet he could not remember a thing of it. Had the marriage even been consummated…surely not…surely he would remember that?

Most likely he must have dragged himself to bed in the early hours or been corralled here by a servant and allowed to collapse drunkenly into bed beside his poor husband to sleep it off. An apology for his boorish behaviour and drunken snoring would be due to his Duchess and then they could move on and partake of their duties to solidify the marriage that coming night instead.

But as the crisp air started to clear the fog from his mind, the comforting picture he’d slotted together mere seconds before started to shatter to confused pieces.

After all, if he’d simply stumbled drunkenly into bed last night then why had he awoken completely naked this morning? Why was there the distinct, musky smell of sex permeating the entire room?Particularly potent on the very bed he was lying on, seemingly saturating the sheets.

There was also a familiar ache in his limbs, an ache he hadn’t felt in quite some time but that was unforgettable in it’s bone deep satisfaction, the faint leftovers of truly sated pleasure taken.

Nervously he shifted over to the sleeping figure beside him. He carefully pulled back the sheets, desperate not to wake his wife. His head was still spinning, both with the effects of the alcohol and the panicky feelings of guilt that were starting to emerge and he couldn’t bear to face Stiles until he fully understood what had taken place the night before.

After all it could simply be the case that Stiles had already been asleep by the time he came to bed and he’d taken his own, lonely pleasure in the bed beside him. It was a pathetic picture yet still infinitely preferable to the other possibility.

As he pulled the sheets slowly towards him, they silently revealed his wife’s long, slim legs. His eyes followed creamy skin up to where pale thighs met seamlessly with smooth, round buttocks. 

He left Stiles’ back still covered by the sheets, not wanting him to feel the cold of the morning too severely.

The instinct to run his hands all over that flawless skin was almost too much, it almost overrode his nausea, his aching head, his anxiety, anything to feel his bride’s sleep warm skin redden under his palm.

However as he reached out a hand to the top of a slim thigh, he stopped, hand hovering a mere inch from it’s object. 

Was that a bruise? 

Nestled almost in the crease between his thigh and cheek was a dark, purpling bruise, there was no greenish tinge to it so it was clearly freshly acquired. In fact now that he looked fully he could see that all over his buttocks and the inner parts of his thighs there was a faint mottling that held the promise of deep, painful bruises to come. 

That sickly, nervy feeling of dread that had been settling in his stomach since he awoke started to grow and mutate into a gaping wound of fear and guilt that left him a little breathless.

Holding his breath, and quickly checking that his bride, who’s top half was almost totally hidden under his nest of sheets, was still deep in slumber, he reached out a hand and gently took one of Stiles’ soft, perfect arse cheeks and pulled it gently to the side to reveal the most intimate, hidden part of him.

Derek gasped as he took in the view before him. His bride’s hole was reddened and sore, a small smear of blood smearing away towards his thigh and a further ring of bruising told it’s own story of the abuse Stiles had been put through at his own hands. 

Derek felt hot and clammy, his heart was racing and his breath shallow. What had he done? How had this happened? He’d taken his rights, his wedding night, one the most important and supposedly cherished moments of his life and squandered it away in a drunk and violent temper.

And his poor bride. His innocent, sheltered wife who he’d been nervous even to touch for fear of frightening the boy, now lay sprawled before him, damaged and abused by his own hand.

He’d known he’d have to corrupt the boy, would have to introduce him to desires and pleasures that would have shocked and confused him in the beginning but he'd imagined slowly and gently coaxing pleasure from his wife’s body until he was writhing in bliss and begging his husband for more.

Now all that lay in ruins, the proof in the shattered, fragile body before him. The Duke slumped forwards on the bed, his head in his hands, unable to look anymore at what his own hands had wrought.

A faint rustling brought him out of his stupor, he lifted his head and watched the blankets stir and move as the boy within started to waken. After a few moments of botched struggling Stiles managed to free himself from the tangled sheets and cautiously twisted himself on to his back, fixing those large, sleepy eyes onto Derek.

Fumbling under that open gaze Derek tried desperately to find the right words, any words in fact, that might comfort Stiles, that might begin to explain and apologise for the terrible actions of the night before.

Before he could utter a single word, Stiles suddenly seemed to awaken fully and notice that he was naked and his lower half completely uncovered. A small squeak left his lips and a pink blush spread across his face as he rushed to pull the sheets back over himself. 

Derek noticed the wince cross his face as he lurched forwards quickly to do so. As he sat up the covers pooled around his waist so really there was as much skin on display as there had been before.

Finally, once he’d satisfied himself that he was reasonably decent once more, long fingers smoothing the sheets out over his legs, Stiles turned his gaze shyly once more up to meet Derek’s eyes.

A nervous smile and sad eyes in that pretty face combined to tear what was left of Derek’s guilt wracked heart in two.

‘Your Grace, I hope you are well this morning? Ermm…would you like, I mean, did you wish..well, do you wish anything from me? It’s just that I wasn’t able to clean myself properly last night so you may wish the servants to bring hot water up before you…we, I mean…’

Derek raises a hand to stop Stiles’ nervous chatter, unable to speak. The tremor in his bride’s voice betrays the fear he must be feeling but the fact that he was still willing to offer himself so dutifully to his husband causes the Duke’s chest to swell with warmth and pride at his wife’s courage and sense of duty.

Finally he’s able to speak. ‘Please no! You have more than fulfilled your duty and do not need to prove yourself further. All I can give you is my sincerest apologies for the way I have treated you and my appalling behaviour last night. I confess I do not remember much but you wear the marks of it all over you skin and for that I cannot forgive myself.’

At this remark, Stiles ducked his head down, gaze fixed on his lap as if ashamed.

Derek continued. “I know not how to make things right, but I hope that in time you will forgive me for the grievous trespass I have taken against you.’

At this Stiles raised his eyes to meet Derek’s, his brow crumpled in confusion and a questioning look in that gaze.

‘Sire?’ 

‘I know there’s no way I can convey my regret in words so just please believe me when I say that my future actions will do more to prove my worth than any elaborate prose could do. And please, you may call me Derek or husband when we are alone.’

At this, Stiles smiled softly and repeated ‘Derek’ under his breath, as if trying it out. He didn’t say anything in response to Derek’s apology but nor did he outright reject it and so he felt this was victory enough.

As an awkward silence fell upon the room, Stiles brought his knees up to his body, wincing as he did so.

‘Do you need to see a doctor? I can call for my physician to come up from the village straight away, he is a fine man, trained in Oxford….’

‘No, no’ Stiles interrupted, looking panicked and wide eyed. ‘I will be fine I’m sure. Please don’t send for anyone, a little rest is all I need.’

Derek sighed, he’d feel better if Dr Deaton took a good look at his wife, just to reassure him but he didn’t feel it was the time to push Stiles.

“Of course, as you wish. I think rest sounds like a splendid idea. I’ll be taking a ride around the estate to check on it as I’ve been away for far too long but please go back to sleep for as long as you need. When you are ready simply ring the bell and a servant will bring you hot water to bathe and breakfast.’

With an artless nod Stiles accepts this and carefully reclines back into the pillows. Derek can feel those nervous eyes upon him as he clumsily dresses and hastens from the room. As he leaves he doesn’t dare look back.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your comments :)


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